"After you, my friend," the old professor would say, bowing low.
Lifting a protesting hand, "No," the other would respond, "after you."
"I insist," the old professor would contend.
The other would indicate the turnstile with a gesture. "You first," he would repeat.
And so they would stand there bowing, insisting, until, neither seeing fit to give way, they would retrace their steps and seek a path that had no turnstile.
But once, filled with zeal to explore the wood beyond a certain stile, an ingenious plan occurred to the old professor which was immediately carried to a successful issue. Both clambered over the fence at one side of the opening and proceeded on their way.
And for a long time after each held the incident as a joke against the other.
The conversation of the friends on such occasions was of the life that lay before them, serious; never of the past. And they agreed in their philosophy at all points. They never argued.
"Well, friend," the old professor said one day, "when the time comes for us to go I hope we may go together—may continue our walk."
"I hope we may," the other answered.